![]() |
Oh spring-mouth, oh you giver, you mouth, Of the inexhaustible One, of the Pure, speak – You, mask of marble who are the face Of the flowing water. And you, the outlet Of the concealed water-channel. Hurry on past the graves, Hasten from the slopes of the Appenines, bring report of Your tales, which comes running To your ancient darkened spout How it cascades down into the receptacle lying before you. This is the sleeping, recumbent ear, The marble-ear, into which you whisper endlessly. An ear of the Earth. You hold your discourse With it alone. If a pitcher were thrust forward, It would seem to interrupt what you are saying. ![]() ![]() |
© Robert Temple 2010. Website designed by Jonathan Greet